Of Negros and White Boys
by louisaeve
Summary: Because she was dark and he was light and God it was forbidden, but at some point the Negro girl and the rich white boy cross paths and he thinks to himself, hell, she might be better than anyone in the world. 60sAU!
1. Chapter 1

**Trigger warning: Racism**

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_Of Negros and White Boys_

She's leaned against one of the pillars that held up their school, watching the people rush in below, carrying banners and signs, and their hearts beating with a fire, a fire for a cause that he could never possibly imagine. And how could he when he was just another wealthy white boy? He'd been raised in a suburb dripping with wealth, and it showed now as he stood in his casual school attire, which included a pair of slacks which had been tailored to his body.

She stood watching them, a smile playing across her face as her curls were blown into her face a bit, and she brushed them aside.

"Why aren't you joining them?" He asked before he could help himself, and she turns around, as surprised with his lack of insult as well as him being there.

"I prefer to watch," she grinned once more, and bent her head a bit to watch them, showing her point. "I know we've already won here."

"Won?" He laughs derisively, his eyes scanning over her skin, darker than his own, and yet not black. No, it was a brown, a brown of cinnamon and chocolate and the liquor his father wouldn't let him touch yet. "How have you won?'

"The people here allow me to serve them milk at the grocery store. Harry," here his lips tore into a frown at the name of her friend, another Negro, "is free to play with the children who live down the road from him, the people don't object to my family joining them at the pub. We've won, because we're still breathing. It beats all of you down."

He was included in that you. He was an oppressor, dark and angry and violent in her eyes. He was one of many who had committed heinous crimes against her people. He was one of the people who had enslaved her family, enslaved her. He was one of the people who beat the fourteen year old boy caught holding hands with the mayors girl the town over. He was one of the people who laughed at her when she dared show her face at school, dare say I am a Negro and proud. He was an oppressor, and all of his life he had allowed cruelties against her people to be committed.

His breathing came out heavy and tears rushed to his eyes, which he quickly banished (he could feel his fathers belt already), and instead he watched her laugh, as a little girl viciously tore down a poster proclaiming that Negros would not be allowed to the school dance.

"How - how did you put up with it?" He asked, and then inwardly curses himself as she turned around, her eyes wide, and loving even as her own people, even as his people allowed their own to be lighted with fear and anger and torment. She studies him for a moment, her head cocked to a side, and allows her eyes to sweep over his pale hair and pale skin and pale eyes. So different to her own.

Just as he thinks she won't answer (and why would she?), and he thinks about turning around and going back to Pansy, who last he heard was screeching at the indignity of it all, she opens her mouth. "As the oppressed do. We go to bed with the names of our victims on our lips, and wake to find them in our heart. We turn what the world sees as our weaknesses, a cause to humiliate us and torment us into a shield, a blanket, that will protect us and dissolve any words that can bring us harm. We find our strength in our pain, because we take that and turn it into a spear, which can aim only for a heart, and we grasp that spear and we line it for the oppressors heart."

And she smiles, and it no longer seems as innocent and naive as he always thought. Instead she seems like a girl who has seen too much for her sixteen years of age, and he feels innocent in contrast to her pain, which is rather funny, because he always thought it was rather the opposite.

And then she walks away, and joins in a chorus, a repetition of I Have A Dream, with those whose skin was lighter and darker than her own, which merged with her own, as they turned into the same type of people - people of hope and rage and a yearning of retribution.

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**I have no experience in racism first hand, being an average white girl, so you know, I didn't allow myself to write from the point of view of the oppressed. Sorry if anyone was triggered by this. Not sure if I should continue or leave be. Anyway, much thanks for reading and please do review! xx Louisa**


	2. Chapter 2

**Trigger warning: Racism**

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_Of Negros and White Boys_

The next time they crossed paths is at the town hall on a Friday night. A dance night for the youth, so that they can forget about school and worrying.

Her hair is pulled up fashionably (he can't help but miss her curls) and she's got a frock on, in white with bright red polka dots and someone has painted her lips to match. She's uncharacteristically pretty, pretty in the way of models and the girls in magazines and on T.V., pretty in the dolled up way of his peers, and (considering the gasps that come in with her) his friends and acquaintances think the same. (That or they are shocked at the fact that coloured people have the audacity to show).

She walks in with Potter, who had attempted to look decent, but his hair still sticks up all over the place. Weasley and his sister have joined them, seeming not to care of notice the hisses from Millicent and Pansy about foolish whites, who throw all of their grace and civility away.

Then there's Lovegood, looking out of place with her hair hanging down her back and wearing a dress that he is pretty sure his mother would of worn when she was his age.

And seeming not to care that more than a couple of glares are being directed her way, she puts her hand on the oaf Weasley's shoulder and in his hand and spins them both into the centre of the dance floor.

She is a good dancer, in a whirl of skirts and dots that turn into red lines in her speed. He's not sure who taught her. Maybe she taught herself. She's that sort of person, who could teach herself to play the accordion if she tried hard enough.

He must of been staring because Blaise comes up to him and cocks an eyebrow.

Blaise was, no _is_ lucky. His parents are friends with his own and he was, well, adopted. Seen as better than others, simply because he had been raised by whites. He was allowed at events like this, because he was seen as being 'civil'. That and nobody would refuse his mother.

"Granger?" Blaise asked in surprise, his eyes joining his friends in staring at the dark girl, who was laughing loudly as Longbottom of all people twirled her around. "Draco you can't."

He flinched, and turned away, fixing his eyes on Tracy and Daphne, who were talking quietly in the corner. "I'm not," he placed his drink on a nearby table and stalked over to ask Tracy for a dance.

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_Sorry if this offends anyone - do let me know. The majority of my knowledge of the 60s comes from my grandma and mum, and Hairspray, so you know I hope that this doesn't offend anyone, and is politically correct. If you like this you might like my other dramione AU, 'The Prince and the Pauper', which if you are into AU's you might like. One chapter left of this little series, so I hope you like. Xx Louisa_


	3. Chapter 3

**Trigger warning: Racism**

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_Of Negros and White Boys_

He'd tried to get away from everyone inside, proclaiming how fantastic he and Pansy looked next to each other. Her being dark (the right sort of dark, which was never said but lingered on everyone's lips) and him being light.

He had leaned against a wall, when she rushed out, burst out and let out a scream, a scream of anguish and pain and torment. When she turned around, she saw him standing there and her lips curled up into a sadistic smile. "Enjoy seeing me unhappy?" She asked, the wind blowing her hair.

She hadn't tried to cover her heritage in anyway tonight, like some of the other Negro girls. Her hair tumbled down her back, a mess, a fountain of dark, thick curls, with a touch of honey mixed in every now and then. Her dress only highlighted her dark skin, the colour a light blue, which he thought looked rather pretty.

"No," he said truthfully, but she turned around with a scoff and he was fairly sure she thought he was joking.

"You'd think that on our prom night everyone would forget to be petty and instead focus on having a good time," she sighed, and although he couldn't see her face he was fairly certain that her dark eyes were filled with tears. "Some people are so full of hate that even on what is meant to be one of the happiest days of their lives, they go out of their way to ensure that others have a miserable time."

He didn't know what to say. Was he supposed to say anything? He thought that maybe it would be best simply to let her talk. So he pushed himself off the wall and put his hands over hers, light over dark.

She looked at their hands in shock for a moment, before turning her face skywards and let the moon shine it's white light over her face, looking utterly and completely wonderful in his opinion. "Why is it that everything bad is dark and everything good is light?" It was said as a question, but she definitely didn't expect an answer. But one rushed to his mind anyway.

Because lightness, whiteness was bad. It was bones and pills and asylums and the faded hair of your grandmother who had lost her memories. And darkness, blackness was good. It was the shadows you could hide in and chocolate, coffee, your favourite sweater and turning the light off to spent a passionate night with your lover.

Because light was also bad and dark was also good. But if the oppressors said so, people suddenly might think that they might be equal, and the oppressors would then loose their power. People might think that light and dark could live together or that a Negro girl and a white boy could fall in love.

But he didn't say anything, didn't lean down to join light and dark lips together like he yearned to, and she walked away, back to her friends who were no doubt looking for her and he turned back to Pansy and fawning and the _right_ sort of dark.

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_Sorry if this offends anyone -again I have tried to be considerate, but you never know. Again, my knowledge of the 60s comes from feminist tumblr and 'Hairspray'. This is the last chapter and I have enjoyed writing this immensely. Also, if you want, check out my other AU the Prince and the Pauper if AUs are your sort of thing. So much love and thanks to all those who reviewed/followed/favorited. Much love, Louisa Xx_


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